


The Norwood Builder

by pocketbookangel



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: ACD Canon References, Case Fic, Established Relationship, M/M, NORW, Sherstrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-01-16 04:17:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1331572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketbookangel/pseuds/pocketbookangel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Lestrade are enjoying rekindling their romance, but the case of a murdered property developer may drive them apart.</p><p>A Sherlock/Lestrade rewrite of ACD's "The Norwood Builder". Set a couple of months after "The Empty Hearse".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock ignored the 1812 Overture as it crashed around the room, snare drums and horns demanding he abandon his comfortable bed and face the grim reality of a day without cases. Yesterday, he'd almost been bored enough to take the case of the Missing Moggie of Maida Vale, but imagining the idiots at Scotland Yard gleefully reading about it on John's blog was enough to keep him from saying yes. He still wasn't used to life without an Enemy. Moriarty had been a particularly good one, and he'd had a vast network of minions who were almost as evil as their master. The new aspirants to Moriarty's Crown of Criminality were a pathetic lot, hardly even qualified to be a sidekick or flunky. Sherlock burrowed into his pillow and let the melodies float by him, muffled by the feathers. He wondered why the truly pleasurable things in life were either unhealthy, like opiates, or rare, like a complicated murder in a locked room.

"If you're going to commit a crime, you should at least try to be clever about it. No one tries any more. Why is that?"

Lestrade, peacefully sleeping through church bells and cannon fire, didn't answer.

"Turn off your alarm, Greg. They always play Vivaldi next and you know how I feel about 'Spring' first thing in the morning. Or ever."

The last time he'd had no cases, Lestrade had felt sorry for him. He'd brought him breakfast in bed and tried kissing him after the tea and toast, grumbling a little when Sherlock sent him off to brush his teeth.

"It's barely eight, and everything is already boring," Sherlock said.

"We could go for a drive." Lestrade's voice was hidden under the blankets and layers of sleep.

The absurdity of this suggestion chased away thoughts of breakfast. "A drive? Why? Are you going to try tricking me into eating food outdoors again?"

"Too cold. I've been thinking, since you've been back, things have been going fairly well..."

Sherlock agreed. He reached over Lestrade to turn off the alarm, then stayed on top of him, enjoying the warmth of his lover's body. He moved down, planning on teasing Lestrade, making him wait for the touches he desired.

Frantic pounding at the door interrupted them. They could hear Mrs Hudson sternly telling the source of the noise to wait quietly, but the distressed noises continued.

"Mr Holmes, Mr Holmes! Are you here? Mr Holmes," an unfamiliar voice shouted. Sherlock's first impulse was to text John and ask him to come over and see if the case was worth the trouble of getting out of bed. But John would be getting ready for work, and he had been very sarcastic the last time Sherlock had asked him to interview clients to find out if they were interesting enough to meet.

Lestrade was sitting up with an interested look on his face, but it was impossible to send out a policeman to meet with a client. He didn't understand the finer points of Sherlock's work: "why don't you fill out a police report" was his answer to everything. The man had some sort of addiction to paperwork. Sherlock picked up his dressing gown and went out to meet his new client, who was alternating between sad cries of "Mr Holmes" and unhappy moans.

The client was about Lestrade's height, with a strongly defined nose and chin that in other circumstances probably gave him an air of confidence. He was tearing at his hair, leaving his light blond hair looking like swirls of meringue. The source of his distress had to be recent because it would be impossible for anyone's follicles to withstand such intensity for very long.

Sherlock took in the laptop bag and the badges: the client was studying marketing at University of Westminster, had opinions about music and reducing fossil fuels, was kind to small dogs. He glanced at his trainers: dirt, grass, fresh blood... "You've discovered a body. Splendid! Tell me everything."

The client moaned unhappily. "How did you know? I'm so unlucky. They say you know everything—you must know I didn't do it!"

"I don't think it's likely, but I've seen murderers more rabbity than you. Who are you and who did you kill? Or not kill, as the case may be."

"I'm Hector McFarlane. The man I definitely did not kill is Jonas Oldacre. I met him for the first time yesterday and today he's dead. He was dead when I got there. I thought I could see something strange through the French windows, it was Mr Oldacre, lying there, dead. I thought he could be sleeping because he was an eccentric man, but-"

"He was dead. You knelt down next to the body, which is why you have a smear of blood on your right knee."

"I do?" Hector rubbed at his knees.

"You may as well leave it—it is evidence, after all," Sherlock said.

"No, how could it... I knelt down next to him to see if he was dead. I thought he could breathe on a mirror, but I didn't have-"

Sherlock interrupted Hector before he could start repeating himself. "Please start from the beginning. Before yesterday, you'd never met the late Oldacre, today, you were creeping in his French windows at 7:30 in the morning." He leaned back in his chair, alert to his client's every unconscious gesture and turn of phrase.

"How did you know about the French windows?"

Sherlock briefly considered letting Hector believe it was thanks to psychic abilities rather than simple observation. "Shoes. They're a diary that never lies."

Hector exhaled nervously and began his story. "Earlier this week, I received an email saying that I had won a scholarship. The amount they said I would receive was so ridiculous, I wouldn't need to work, I could move out of my mother's house in Blackheath, spend more time on my studies. I recognised the name of the benefactor, Jonas Oldacre. According to Wikipedia, he is one of the biggest developers in London and the South West. Was one of the biggest developers. He invited me to his house in Lower Norwood for dinner last night so he could tell me more about the scholarship. His house is really fantastic, the whole Downton Abbey thing, with a butler and maids in uniform. The food was not bad, fish, veg, some kind of white-ish soup that didn't taste like anything. Mr Oldacre said he wanted to restore England to its glory days by funding the students who would be England's future."

The faint murmur of Lestrade's voice in the other room disturbed Sherlock. His fears were confirmed when Lestrade appeared at the door to the front room, wearing his cop suit and his cop face.

"Are you Hector McFarlane?" he asked.

Hector trembled at the sound of his name. "Who are you?"

"DCI Lestrade. We'd like you to come to Scotland Yard and help us with our investigation into the death of Jonas Oldacre."

Sherlock quickly stood, blocking his client from Lestrade's sight. "This is unacceptable, Lestrade. You do not have my permission to enter here and arrest my clients"

"There's a warrant out for his arrest," Lestrade said.

Hector shrank into his chair at the word arrest. "It's fine. I'll go."

"Stay. DCI Lestrade can wait outside while you finish your story."

"I want him to hear my story. I didn't do anything. You have to believe me," Hector said, looking anxiously from Sherlock to Lestrade.

"If you don't leave immediately, you will never be welcome here again," Sherlock said.

Lestrade settled in Sherlock's chair. "You need to know that you do not have to say anything, but anything you do say may be given in evidence. Go on with your story, son."

"Yesterday was the first time I'd ever met Mr Oldacre. I wouldn't have heard of him, except when I was young, the block of flats across from us were covered in signs for Oldacre Property Group. My parents said they'd known him once, said any flats built by him were likely to come crashing down on the owner's heads. Talking to him that night, I couldn't understand why my parents disliked him. His views on the UK – EU relationship were a little backwards, but what can you expect from someone that old."

Sherlock glanced at the Wikipedia article he'd accessed on his phone. "Jonas Oldacre, born 1965, a year older than you, Lestrade. Currently living in Deep Dene House—no one's added the date of death yet."

Hector waited patiently while Sherlock edited Oldacre's page.

"By the time we finished eating, it was after eleven. He said that in the future, I could stay with him, but he wasn't prepared for guests. He called the Anerley Arms, said I could spend the night there and gave me some money to pay for it. He said it was his fault I missed the train, we were drinking port. I'd never had port before, it didn't taste like I thought it would, but it was good." Hector wiped his damp forehead with his sleeve.

"Mr Oldacre needed me to come back early in the morning to Skype with the other members of the scholarship foundation. He gave me a lot of money, but I didn't know that until I got to the hotel. He said if I left through the French windows, I could cut across the open space to the main road and save myself a bit of time. He really did give me a lot of money. I couldn't believe it when I opened the envelope. I called my mother and told her I was the luckiest man on earth." Hector's face crumpled as if he were about to cry.

"This open space next to his house, are there any gates, or is it open to the main road?" Sherlock asked.

"No gates, there's a footpath that leads between the houses on the other side."

"Did you hear that, Lestrade? Anyone could wander past Oldacre's house and see him handing out envelopes full of money. When you discovered the body, you knelt down and what?"

"The housekeeper came in and started screaming. She screamed and screamed. I was the one who called emergency. When they came in, she started screaming that I'd killed him. Everything was happening so fast. I couldn't think, so I ran. I didn't stop running until I was on the train."

"So much for security on British Rail," Lestrade said.

Sherlock paced back and forth, stopping at the window to watch the police cars arrive. "One more question, why do you deserve a scholarship?"

"Why..." Hector shook his head.

"Did you apply? What have you done that would make a billionaire hand you money? It's not usual behaviour, he's famous for knocking down blocks of perfectly decent flats and replacing them with so-called luxury apartments, not for any eleemosynary activities."

"I haven't done anything, Mr Holmes." Hector tensed as the door opened and Sally Donovan briskly entered the room.

Donovan was always abrupt, but she usually bothered to knock before entering. The investigation was already going wrong.

"Sir, we need to talk. Outside." She turned to Hector. "There are police all over this street, so don't try anything."

Sherlock lounged against the closed door, listening to Donovan and Lestrade. It wasn't difficult, Lestrade's angry tone carried through the door and across the room. "Disappeared? How the hell does a body disappear?"

"Disappeared," Sherlock said. "And I thought today was going to be boring."

Lestrade opened the door, not at all surprised to see Sherlock on the other side. "Well, any ideas as to where Jonas Oldacre has wandered off to?" he asked.

"I'll know more once I've been to Blackheath."

"You mean to Norwood," Lestrade said.

"Oh, yes, no doubt that is what I must have meant," Sherlock said, smiling slightly.

Lestrade didn't have time to wonder what was behind that enigmatic smile. The Norwood police had somehow lost a corpse, which meant it was time to get to work. The surprise he'd planned for Sherlock would have to wait for another day.


	2. Chapter 2

Police cars blocking the gravel drive and yellow-jacketed officers methodically poking at the ground with long sticks spoiled Deep Dene House's Edwardian fantasy of pale bricks and graceful limes.

"They're still looking for the body," Donovan said. "I'm surprised Sherlock isn't here, telling us it was stuffed up a chimney."

"Chimneys—" Lestrade stepped back for a better view of the mansard roof.

"We checked. They're gas, not real. This house might look old, but it was built in 2005."

"It would take a real pro to dismember a body and stuff it in a gas fireplace in less than an hour. I could do it, but that kid probably couldn’t." Lestrade caught Donovan’s eye. "I said _could_ , not that I had."

"He’s a bad influence on you." Years of swallowed insults behind that disapproving pronoun.

"He's good, you know that, but in this case, he didn't see anything I didn't."

They introduced themselves to the detective who was waiting for them right outside the door. DS Evans wanted to look as if he didn't mind losing control of his own case, but he kept smoothing down his thinning hair while missing the few renegade strands that did stick out angrily in non-GQ approved ways. Finding a smear of blood where there should have been a corpse was a career-ender.

"We've got McFarlane, and we're bound to get the body. Nothing left here but the clean-up," Evans said. He stuck out his chin and waited for the yelling to begin.

"Yeah, finding the body is a bit more than clean-up," Lestrade said. "Let's not be too quick with McFarlane."

"With all due respect, sir, if he was innocent, he would have no reason to run."

"No reason to run? Some people just don't like coppers, can't imagine why. Usually, we get around this by making sure we run faster. Show me the room," Lestrade said.

The brilliant light from the French windows fought the dark mahogany furnishings, but was ultimately defeated by the stern rows of books and the heavy frame around Jonas Oldacre's portrait. His thin lips were turned up in a smile that didn't match the contempt in his eyes.

Evans opened his notebook. "The room was left unoccupied for about five to seven minutes, sir. Caroline Lexington, the live-in housekeeper called at 7:00 exactly, and the first officer on the scene arrived at 7:06. The officers believed McFarlane had taken refuge in one of the houses on Penge Road, so they called for backup before starting their search. They returned here at 7:15 and discovered the body was missing. I arrived at 7:38."

Lestrade glanced at that ormolu clock that squatted underneath the portrait. 11:31. The body had been missing for over four hours. He walked over to the French windows, their pristine whiteness eliminated them as an exit, so he went back through the study and into the hallway. He considered asking Evans for a tour of the house, but Donovan's sympathetic ear had calmed Evans' defensive posturing, so he let them continue their DS conversation. Criminals, like flies, were easier to catch with honey than with vinegar. Except for Sherlock, who was a magician with astringency.

The small window at the end of the hall was angled to look over a classic English landscape, with trees hiding the rows of terraces and the noise of the city. As long as Lestrade didn't look too closely, the peaceful greenery hid grazing sheep rather than a Sainsbury's. The entire house was an illusion. Less than ten years old, it was dedicated to recreating a way of life almost no one was alive to remember. The butler and maids who had served McFarlane at dinner were all part-timers. Everything was new, but carefully designed to look as if it had been handed down through the generations.

It was a beautiful view, but Oldacre's windows looked out over what was only a narrow corner. Lestrade looked around the first floor and tried to imagine what he was standing over. The guest bedroom. On the ground floor, bookcases lined the walls of the study. Walls built where there could have been windows.

Lestrade returned to the study. "You know what they say about books and covers." He accepted a pair of gloves from one of the officers, and made sure they'd photographed the entire room before he began searching for the book that did not belong. Agatha Christies, a row of fat Dickens, the complete works of George Gissing, Marie Corelli, and John Galsworthy.

"They say don't judge a book by its cover. Sherlock tells me that's ridiculous because a cover is there to tell you something about the book, but what would he know. He only reads books about chemicals and 19th century executions." Lestrade started pulling books from the shelves.

"In the same book?" Evans asked.

"The only book that's been read here is the deluxe reissue of _From Russia With Love_. He didn't need a wall of bookcases for that." Signed first editions and 'deluxe' reproductions, both ordered from a designer's catalogue, landed on the floor in an untidy heap until Lestrade reached a hardbound set of Wisden almost out of reach on the highest shelf. He tugged at them, and instead of falling on his head, there was a loud click, and the bookcase moved away from the wall.

Lestrade tried not to laugh. Twenty-four years in the job and he'd never had a case with a real secret room before. "Like in a film," he heard someone say. Lestrade moved into the dark space behind the shelves and felt around for the light.

Jonas Oldacre was leaning against the far wall, blank eyes fixed on a large safe, as if he wanted to carry his symbol of wealth into the next world. A trail of blood was smeared against the wall—Oldacre, touched the wound on his head, then stumbled in here, steadying himself against the wall, leaving a dark trail behind him.

Lestrade stepped back and snapped a picture. It was unprofessional, but he wanted to make Sherlock sorry he'd missed this.

\--

"Where are we going for lunch?" John asked. Sherlock remained lying on the sofa, motionless. "No lunch, then?"

"I'm contemplating a change in career." Sherlock’s lips barely moved.

"What happened?"

Sherlock held out his mobile so John could see the photos Lestrade had sent.

"Who's he?" Neither of them had met Oldacre when he was alive, so they didn't know that death had replaced his smugness and malice with bemusement, as if death was something that happened to others and couldn't possibly be happening to him.

"Dead."

"I can see that."

"I didn't expect him to actually be dead. Dead people don't move very far or very fast."

"Generally they do need some help with that. So what happened?"

Sherlock didn't move. "This morning, a client, young Hector McFarlane, came here and asked for me help; Lestrade promptly arrested him. You can't tell if someone is a murderer just by looking, but he came here, which is a point in his favour. He had no motive—in fact, Oldacre's death will probably lead to a delay in receiving any money he might get. If you read Lestrade's texts, you'll see he thinks it's greed. I told him that only an idiot would kill the goose that was about to lay a golden egg."

"Isn't that what happens in the story? The goose is killed. How did Lestrade know to find your client here?"

"I haven't visited the scene of the crime yet—I didn't think it was necessary. Hector tells one person, and only one person, his mother, about his good luck. It made sense to talk to her first. Same blue eyes and fluffy blonde hair, same chin."

"Do you think she killed him?"

"They lived together around twenty years ago. He'd asked her to marry him, and she had said yes, but the engagement didn't last. He used to feed the pigeons that roosted outside their flat."

"Pigeons are awful; can't blame her for leaving."

"She thought it was misguided kindness, until one day, she came home early and saw him taking a friend's dog for a walk. Walk isn't the right word, he was encouraging it to run through the pigeons, throwing food with one hand and setting the dog on them with the other. Such pointless cruelty was his _modus operandi_. She broke off the engagement and returned to her parent's house. I could interview everyone who has crossed Oldacre's path over the past forty-eight years, and I don't think I would find a single mourner among them."

"You liked her."

"She was certain he was dead. I wasn't even certain he was dead." Sherlock sat up, nervous energy keeping his back straight.

"Inspector Lestrade's new theory: Hector McFarlane hits Oldacre over the head, runs away. Oldacre isn't dead, he's been knocked out. Disorientated, he staggers into his safe room, it is literally a safe room, it contains his safe, dies. How is it possible for Lestrade to be on the right track for once? He needs me—he always needs me."

"Was Greg already here when your client arrived? That must have been early." John tried to keep his voice neutral. He may not have been able to tell a stranger's occupation from the marks on their thumbs, but he knew Sherlock. It wasn't merely curiosity; he was worried about Sherlock living on his own. John knew that if he wanted to get married, he couldn't be the one making sure Sherlock didn't disappear into his own mind.

"Villa Lestrade is still tangled up, Jarndyce vs Jarndyce can't compare to Lestrade vs Lestrade, so he stays here sometimes. That's finished now. If he can't respect my work, I can't have him in my flat."

"If there's a warrant out, you can't expect him to sit quietly by and do nothing. He's not going to stop doing his job because you're his boyfriend."

"Why not? He know that I'm always right in the end, so if I say, _don't arrest that man_ , he should leave off." Sherlock glared at John. "I suppose you think that was clever."

"It was a bit, wasn't it? How long?"

"Before I left, we started... but he wasn't divorced then, he was divorcing. There's a difference."

"So it's serious?"

Sherlock examined the picture he'd been sent. He enlarged it to abstraction, looking for the telling detail. "This case already has a secret room. Wouldn't it be glorious if the murderer was the butler? We're going to talk to Oldacre's servants."

Lunch was sandwiches on the train. John tried not to get coronation chicken on his laptop while he typed up the parts of the case Sherlock was willing to talk about. There were apparently countless ways in which Lestrade was wrong.

"What if he's right?" John asked, digging an almond out from between the K and L.

"If Lestrade is right about this case, it could be that my influence has led him to a moment of uncharacteristic insight."

John decided not to add that statement to his notes, Sherlock redacted for his readers at Scotland Yard.


End file.
